


The Mandalorian Accords

by dogmatix, norcumi



Series: A Supplemental Star to Steer By [9]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Stargate SG-1
Genre: GFY, Gen, Parent Death, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, loss of limbs mention, refrerenced past non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-03-19 08:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13700601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: Many millennia before Obi-Wan Kenobi encountered one Jack O'Neill, the Galactic Republic was a wilder, war-torn place. Jango Fett intends to do something about that.





	1. Manda'lor

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Lilyrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyrose225/pseuds/lilyrose225) for giving everything a good once over; various folks for assistance as this fic has fought being written, and of course all the readers who are patiently waiting for more Star to Steer By. <3 (We'll get there. Promise. - Norcumi)

**It is an era of bloody conflict**  
**throughout the galaxy.  The Republic,**  
**defended by the Jedi Order and her military,**  
**has been locked in a war for survival against the**  
**Sith Empire for over a century.**

 **The Mandalorian Faction, holding sway over dozens of**  
**systems, stands neutral, selling its services to the highest**  
**bidders and profiting from both sides.**

 **An unexpected offer of alliance has brought both the leader of**  
**the Jedi Order and the Republic's Supreme Chancellor to a clandestine**  
**meeting on Concordia, where they hope to secure an agreement that could**  
**tip the scales of war in their favor....**

 

* * *

Myles Tenau stood behind his Manda’lor, patiently waiting for the man to be ready. He wasn’t sure if the delay was to steady Fett’s nerves or to remind their guests of where they were, but either way, Myles was willing to wait.

It also never hurt to take the Jedi down a peg. Most of them were too certain of their place as the bright moral centers of the universe around which everything orbited. Far too many thought that this status excused any behavior in the name of the greater good, which could have a very flexible definition.

As for the Chancellor.... Well. Myles would follow his Manda’lor anywhere, but even he had doubted that the man could summon the head of the Republic.

Yet here they were. Once again, Fett had done the impossible. By attending, both the Chancellor and the Jedi were acknowledging the Mando’a as a force to be reckoned with, not just mercenaries and bodies to be thrown at the Sith. Mandalorians were the pivot point, the balancing faction between the Jedi and the Sith, the Light-supported Republic and the Dark Empire.

The Sith Empire had finally gone too far. It hadn’t been any specific atrocity or horrible battle, but an accumulation of all of them. The Empire paid well, but the Sith were always willing to let the Mando’a take the fall for them, betraying contracts and people for whatever momentary advantage they could find.

The result: decades of war, and oceans of Mandalorian blood.

Yes, it had made many clans rich. It had made just as many clans small, caused too many orphans and too much mourning. The Manda’lor’s neutral stance meant the Mando’ade served who they would, taking credits from either side – or both, in enterprising situations – and made their people stronger in the fires of the endless war.

Yet those fires had burned too long, consumed too many lives. Even their leader was ready to acknowledge that the war needed to end.

“This is still a terrible idea.”

Myles gave the man a look. “Do I really need to remind you that it was yours?”

Fett snickered and shook his head. “No.” He sobered quickly, glaring back out the window. “I just wish there was a reasonable alternative.” He sighed. “No corners left to think around.” He gave Myles a wry grin before tucking his helmet under his arm. A firm nod, and Myles led the way into the meeting room.

The Chancellor actually stood when the Mando’ade entered, giving them a polite bow.

The Jedi remained seated. Myles gave the robed Jenet woman a cool look, then fell into parade rest at Fett’s side. He had a small display-box under his arm instead of his helmet, but sometimes needs must.

“Chancellor Tarsus Valorum.” He nodded to the human, who politely returned the gesture. “Jedi Lord Valethyne Farfalla.” Last time they had encountered the Jedi, he’d been hosted in a half-Bothan male. He now had a precisely groomed Jenet as his host, and Myles wondered what story was behind that. “Host Fae Coven. I present to you Manda’lor Jango Fett.”

* * *

Jango set his helmet down on the table and sat, giving Valorum a polite wave of the hand to invite him to sit as well. Stupid bit of protocol, but that was the Republic for you.

Myles arranged himself in the plainer chair to Jango’s left, box with its two data chips nestled in recessed indentations set on the table with care and precision. Jango let them sweat a little about that. Those little chips contained the minutiae of sweeping legislation, all crafted and examined by the best lawyers and politicians Jango could buy.

When the melodrama seemed appropriately thick, he shook his head. “The Sith are kicking your asses.”

Farfalla’s eyes flared a little, a rich purple now instead of the dark yellow it’d been in his last host. The purple went better with the pink skin of the Jenet he was in, but Jango hoped that wasn’t the actual reason the Jedi was going around presenting differently. “With assistance from Mandalorian mercenaries, yes.”

Voice was still the same. Deep, rich tones with a snotty lilt that made Jango’s hand itch for his blasters. He didn’t show any sign of that, though. It was a poor and obvious tell for any fighter – he might be young, but he was far from immature – and he _had_ called this little meeting. “Same way you Jedi haven’t folded completely. Due to assistance from Mandalorian mercenaries.”

“Perhaps.” Valorum leaned forward. “But that does not explain why you requested a meeting with a Senate representative and the head of the Jedi Order. Why are we here, Manda’lor?”

Jango met his eyes, trying to understand the man’s intentions from his body language. Valorum seemed open enough, but he was also a professional politician. “I’ve an offer for you.”

“An offer?” Farfalla scoffed, “not demands? I thought more of your sense of self-importance.”

He smirked back at the Jedi, showing a bit of teeth. The Jedi was trying to goad him into something, and Jango really hoped the damn parasite knew it wouldn’t work. “An offer,” he repeated.

“For assistance?” Valorum sounded skeptical as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and raising a brow.

“An end to the wars.”

Farfalla hissed and sat up, ears twitching. “Explain yourself, _bounty hunter_.”

Jango would never understand why people thought he was insulted by that. He’d earned his reputation fairly and through hard work. The way he’d fought his way to the top rank of his people and defended his place there was only possible _because_ he had been a damn good bounty hunter. Anyway, it wasn’t the title that mattered. It was the loyalty of his people that made him strong, made his rank worthwhile.

“My terms are this.” He motioned to Myles, who slid the first data chip over towards Valorum. “Dismantle the system armies; centralize them all under the Republic. No more Jedi warlords.”

“We’re not–!” Farfalla started, sitting ramrod-straight.

“You damn well are and you know it,” Jango cut him off with a glare, then turned back to Valorum. “Take the Jedi under _your_ purview, instead of tossing them control of your Republic every few election cycles until they piss off enough people to lose. They get one representative, same as any other group in your precious Republic.”

Farfalla was starting to growl, loose objects around the room rattling a little in his rage.

Jango ignored him, continuing to meet Valorum’s eyes. The man still had that inquisitive lift to his brow, but was blank faced otherwise. “Other than that one representative, Jedi _stay_ out of politics. They always pay lip-service to being ‘servants of the people,’ let them back it up.”

“I don’t know if we have the political will to carry that,” Valorum admitted, ignoring Farfalla’s betrayed look.

“Survival. See how much political will that gets you.”

“And how would we enforce it?”

“The basic details are on the chip. Anything more creative is not my problem. I can call in a team of lawyers if you really want, but they’re better versed in Mandalorian law, not Republic.” Not true, but they didn’t need to know that.

“You make absurd demands, with no concern for details, and you start with dismantling our _armies_? Are you mad or stupid, _Manda’lor_?” Farfalla snarled, fists clenched in rage.

Another motion, and another chip slid across the table to bump against the Jedi’s hand. The Jedi glanced down at it, but didn’t pick it up. “Neither,” Jango said. “But I am tired of endless war, and that’s coming from the Manda’lor.” That finally cracked Valorum’s mask, surprise leaking through. “It’s not just us that’s exhausting resources, and that starts and ends with people. My terms for the Jedi.” Jango glared back at Farfalla, reminding himself yet again that this was the only path. “You enact laws on your people. Codify your practices. No. Unwilling. Hosts. _Ever_.”

That finally shocked the Jedi, making him pull back a little to squint at Jango in confusion. A moment later, those purple eyes shimmered to brown. Fae Coven rolled her eyes. “They _don’t_ , in case–”

“You’re not listening. I mean raise your children differently. Make it law. Someone takes an unwilling host, they die. None of this second chance _shit_.” He stabbed a finger at the Jedi as her eyes flashed over to purple. “You have _Council_ members who used beings for hosts without asking.”

“And they then left–”

“Not good enough!” he roared, slamming his palms against the table. “You prance around declaring how righteous and fabulous you are, that it’s just the Sith who take whatever they damn well please– !”

“You were a host for less than a week, in circumstances where the Jedi in question would have died!”

It took all his will to keep from shooting the bastard. Jango sat for a long moment, wrestling his temper under control. Were it not for the flash of shame on Farfalla’s face, he couldn’t swear that he would have managed it.

“The Jedi in question.” He shook his head, sliding his hands off the table to rest his clenched fists on his thighs. “You still stand behind the bastard, whoever the fuck they are. I hope to the gods they got more than a slap on the wrist.”

He had been young. A transport had crashed. It had been a week until the survivors had been found.

The survivors were Jango, and the Jedi possessing him. The bastard’s Rodian host had died on the third day on planet, and the first he knew of it was when he’d awoken to find his body moving on its own, and there was a soft voice between his ears apologizing, swearing that if it had not been their life on the line, they never would have–

Jango knew how fucking lucky the Jedi considered themselves that the most recent Manda’lor hadn’t declared outright war upon both them and their Sith cousins. He still sometimes considered it. If there was a way where there’d be less loss of life, where the Mando’ade wouldn’t suffer because he couldn’t fucking get over his own damn trauma…

He’d wipe them from the galaxy and die a happy man in a heartbeat. Apart from the body count if he tried, he had to admit – grudgingly – that the Jedi were the lesser of two evils. They did not, in fact, always take without asking. The Sith did. Oh, they might make alliances with their hosts, they might ask, but from every scrap of data he could find, they didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

His problem was that the Jedi sometimes didn’t either. ‘Life or death circumstances’ or ‘emergencies’ or, well, all sorts of excuses were possible.

Jango wasn’t going to have it. “Codify it, Farfalla.” He showed his teeth, the gesture too bitter for a grin. “Grace period of no more than a week if they turn themselves in at the first possible opportunity. I don’t care about the details of the execution. Those who don’t agree to go along with this edict are killed. That includes Sith, so you even get to legalize hunting them. Once the Empire’s broken, you get to keep taking them down, _and you will_.”

He’d managed to confuse the bastard enough to keep him quiet. Good, since it took a massive amount of effort to make himself concede the next point. “I am...willing to negotiate amnesty for those who haven’t done anything within a certain timeframe that we can hash out later.” Jango hated beyond words that he was pretty sure they’d settle for something that would pardon the never-identified Jedi who had taken him. Farfalla would probably try, just to screw him over, but that was the way politics went.

Which left the hard part. The words tried to stick in his throat. He could see Valorum open his fucking annoying mouth to interject himself, only to be stopped by a surprisingly subtle head-shake and raised hand from Farfalla, and then the Jedi piped up. “Even if we agree to all this, the kind of restructuring you’re talking about would cause chaos within the Republic for months. Mandalorian abstinence from the war won’t counteract that.”

“You’re right,” Jango made himself admit. “In return.” Fuck appearances, he had to take a shaky breath. _Without this, it all falls apart_. “In return, I will provide you with the means to win the war. The Jedi will have my army to lead.”

Farfalla went still, eyes widening before glancing over at Myles. As if Jango wouldn’t have talked it over with his closest advisor and friend, gotten advice from as many voices as he dared to consult.

Valorum wasn’t as flabbergasted as the Jedi. He leaned forward, shaking his head and looking a little dazed. “You would volunteer the Mandalorian people for the Republic? I must admit, I didn’t think you had that kind of influence.”

He would have laughed if it wouldn’t have sounded mad. They had no idea. Once again, they were proving their understanding of the Mando’ade was pathetically broken. “The Mando’ade choose their leader. It is upon him or her to keep their clans, their _family_ safe. I’ve kept my position for as long as I have because my people support it. They support me, and I say it is time for the wars to end. There are better ways to keep our people strong than endless deaths for Jedi or Sith.” He shook his head and gave Farfalla a disgusted look. “We fight and fight and fight, and what do we have to show for all of it? A century of war and we’re back to almost the same damn territory as when the whole mess started. Some clans are richer in credits, and some of them are my strongest supporters. The Mando’ade follow me, and I say this is _enough_.”

Farfalla and Valorum studied him, the former scowling yet finally looking impressed. Valorum was expressionless as only politicians could be. “You would pledge yourself to the Republic?” the Chancellor finally asked.

Jango was already shaking his head. “Work with, yes. Join, not exactly.”

“You will be under the command of the Jedi,” Farfalla pointed out.

Still trying to get a rise out of him. “Good, because that’s the other thing.” Jango stretched out one hand to tap the chip Myles had tossed to Farfalla. “The details are here. The short of it? The Jedi take on responsibility for an army. A standing army.” He grinned at Farfalla, sharp and merciless. “Give you a sense of responsibility. Army of the Jedi Order, whatever you want to call it. We’ll be happy to assist in making sure you don’t screw this up too much.”

Farfalla and Valorum looked at each other, then back at Jango. “We need time to talk this over,” Valorum said.

“Of course,” Jango nodded. “I’ll have Myles show you to your rooms.” What Jango was proposing was unprecedented, even outlandish, and he knew that. This kind of sweeping change, this suddenly, would be impossible during peacetime - but this wasn’t peacetime. The Chancellor and the Master of the Jedi Order hadn’t said ‘yes,’ but the war had the Republic between blasters and the cold vacuum of space, and every instinct Jango had was telling him the odds were in his favor.


	2. Forging Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to MoreCivilizedAge for giving this a quick once over!

**A decade later**

Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas tried not to brood too much as his shuttle descended onto Mandalore. He’d never had a fondness for piloting, and his host, Cade Tavvon, had even less, so they were more than content to let a droid take them in.

That did, however, give him plenty of time to worry.

Yes, all right, brood. He had a good relationship with Myles Tenau, but the Manda’lor was a whole different matter. Jango Fett had never made his distaste-verging-on-hatred for the Jedi a secret.

Now Sifo-Dyas had been called in to try to get Jango Fett to reverse his very hardline stance. A difficult proposition under any circumstances, and Jango’s plan having been successful in defeating the Sith Empire was going to make it more so. Sifo-Dyas knew he was one of the better negotiators in the Order, but he had no idea if this was the challenge he wanted to tackle at the end of a long and illustrious career.

# _I do wish you’d stop being all melodramatic about being old._ #

Sifo-Dyas smiled at Cade’s now regular complaint. The young man had every right to, being as he was both the Jedi’s host, and a native to the small system that Sifo-Dyas’ lineage had ruled for generations.

Sifo-Dyas was the last. His progenitor had died not long after he’d been spawned, and his creche had been a small, last futile attempt for another queen.

He’d had centuries to become philosophical about it. Cade was young, even for a near-human. Accepting that time had finally caught up, and that he had only a few more decades left to live – well, it hadn’t been easy coming to terms with that, but he had.

Mostly. He _was_ willing to admit that this endeavor could in fact be a grand cap on his life. For good or ill.

# _Seriously, stop that, I’m nervous enough as it is._ #

# _Manda’lor Fett rarely has much grief with hosts._ #

#‘ _Rare’ and ‘not much’ does not mean ‘none.’ I’m not sure how good my chances are of leaving here in one piece._ #

# _Don’t worry. Myles will protect us._ #

The amusement faded, leaving behind genuine concern, mild though it might be. # _Are you sure about him? He IS the Manda’lor’s lover._ #

There were times, when for all his age, Sifo-Dyas could still be surprised by his hosts. # _He most certainly is not!_ # There was an awkward silence, and Sifo-Dyas realized that Cade might have taken his scandalized tone as a sign of disapproval, both of the act of sex, and indirectly of Cade himself. He sighed, pinching the brow of his nose. # _That came out wrong._ #

Cade took control of the body and crossed his arms defensively. The young man did nothing to hide his Zeltron heritage, minor though it might be: between the dark blue tint to his hair and the slightly-more than rosy complexion it was easy enough to spot.

Nor did Cade shy from the cultural heritage of sexual liberties that came with it, which Sifo-Dyas preferred to skip. Jedi were typically uninterested in sex for its own sake, given that their species’ survival didn’t hinge on it. Cade, on the other hand, was a young and sexually energetic host, and the dissonance could be jarring for Sifo-Dyas.

It was certainly not his business who, what, or how Cade decided to have sex with, and they’d left it in the polite social gap of “Things We Do Not Talk About.”

That had perhaps been a mistake.

# _Cade, I swear to you, that was not about either man, or what they might or might not do in private. Please trust me when I say that I know they are not lovers. Beloved, maybe, but that is NOT information I have been privy to. I was...rather surprised at the notion, that is all._ #

Cade held out for a long moment, then nodded with a sigh. He was the child of diplomats, and understood that there were some things that he was to be left out of, and that was simply the unfortunate nature of politics.

Not to mention that Sifo-Dyas had no idea how to explain _how_ he knew.

Also, Myles would kill him if it got out. Not that Sifo-Dyas would blame him.

The droid chirruped at them that they finally had clearance to leave the ship, earning a distracted pat from Cade as they swept out.

Myles Tenau was waiting for them at the bottom of the ramp, ignoring the bustle of the space port’s workers around them. His helmet was off and latched onto his belt, lending a casual air as the Manda’lor’s right-hand man gave them a nod that almost dipped down into a bow.

# _Well. He’s pulled out the stops for a warm welcome._ #

Cade sighed internally while bowing back, murmuring the polite niceties civility required. # _Force. I don’t think you’re joking._ #

# _I absolutely am not._ #

# _This is now officially the craziest thing you have ever done._ #

# _Mark it on my records when you make it out of this._ #

# _Not funny._ # Cade followed Myles to an air car, not hiding his polite people-watching on the speedy flight. It was apparently a market day in the capital city of Keldabe, and haggling Mandalorians filling the streets made for a vivid spectacle.

It also gave them an excuse for not having to talk shop for the swift trip to a nondescript government building.

Inside the building, they didn’t garner anything more than quick glances during their walk to a comfortable set of offices, and Myles shook his head as he closed the door behind them. “I do hope you’re going to say something of substance soon?”

“Indeed,” Sifo-Dyas said, taking control and shifting Cade’s brown eyes to the pale green he favored.

# _Here goes. Wish me luck_.# He sat, resting elbows on the armrests and tenting his hands before him.

# _You’re nuts_.# Cade sent it with an emotional impression of good wishes, and hope.

They would need it.

“I’ve been sent – unofficially, of course – a few days early by the Jedi Council to request the Manda’lor revoke his mandate for a standing army.”

Myles’ eyes narrowed a hair. “They sent you to talk to me about this.” His tone was neutral, hiding the first ember of anger.

“Of course. Some of them know we are friends. Also, they knew they would need someone with unusual perspectives.”

So delicately put. So careful of how it tiptoed around the issues.

To Sifo-Dyas’ knowledge, only he and Myles knew that Manda’lor Jango Fett’s second-in-command and close friend had hosted a Jedi. It had been for less than a day, when the diplomatic mission they had gone on some years before had gone “tits up” as Myles liked to put it. It had been during the war, a high-profile negotiation of a planet’s terms of surrender.

Of the original party, only Myles had made it out of an ambush at the meeting site with minor wounds. Of the rest of the Republic contingent, only another Mandalorian and Sifo-Dyas and his host had also made it out, though both had been badly wounded.

The Mandalorian had given her life to guarantee their escape from what was now a hostile, Sith aligned city. During the frantic retreat to the space port, Sifo-Dyas’ host had succumbed to his wounds, too many for even a Jedi to heal. The rest of the way, Myles had carried Sifo-Dyas wrapped around his arm, or occasionally tucked inside the man’s breastplate.

Neither of them had liked that very much, though it meant he hadn’t ended up dead.

Sifo-Dyas had managed to return the favor by sneaking into the space port, getting into places Myles could not, and opening quite a few doors from the inside. There’d been an impressive firefight, a broken collarbone and blaster-wound through his leg for Myles, and a very surreal incident of them cowering inside a shuttle, with an irate Mandalorian snarling into his breastplate that this was fucking stupid and climb in already and if there was a single incident of improper behavior he’d do some very improbable things with lots of very small, very sharp knives.

Sifo-Dyas had not been in the least surprised to find that Myles had meant every word of it, in graphic detail. Thankfully, he had no intention of being anything but on his best behavior, and by the time they made it into hyperspace, the grudging mutual respect had migrated into tentative friendship.

The Jedi shoved deep back into his brain the unfortunate glimpse he’d gotten of mild sexual frustration that Myles had felt for Jango, who seemed to have no interest in copulating with anyone; man, woman, or otherwise.

Force, Cade’s youth and abundance of hormones made for interesting times.

Myles nodded slowly, anger ebbing into caution. “That’s what this meeting is about? The Jedi Council wants Jango to let them disband their army?”

“Reduce, not disband. This war is over, Myles. There’s four or five more years of messy cleanup, and the tail end of that will most likely drag into at least a decade, maybe three on the outside. By then, the Jedi will have hunted down the last Sith that dare to pop their heads up, and there’s apt to be a specific branch formed of the more violently inclined to go hunt down the rest. Which leaves us with thousands of soldiers _with nothing to do_. We’re already seeing trouble on the quieter core worlds. It’s the best place to stash an overflow as garritroopers, but– ”

“Breaking up brawls, getting in the local Judicial branch’s way, and looking for trouble. That’s not unusual.”

“The scope, however– ”

“Is necessary to keep the whole damn Sith Empire out of the Republic– ”

“The point is to _destroy_ the Sith Empire– ”

They wrangled, points beating back and forth like a lightsaber duel. They all knew the arguments well, which meant they spent near an hour treading well-known ground.

Stalemate. While Sifo-Dyas appreciated a good workout with a respected opponent, even if it were more kata than duel, this was getting nowhere.

Sifo-Dyas leaned back in his chair, sighing and scrubbing his face. “Myles. Please. We’ve found the money, but the problem is the _people_.”

“Then find ways to retire them and recruit better temperaments.”

Force, the man’s stubborn expression was beyond mulish. “Yes, well, if that sort of temperament were inclined to go out and fight, kill, and die on a regular basis but take some nice downtime when there’s nothing else to do but– ”

“Will you _please_ stop making Mando’ade sound like psychopaths? _We_ don’t have trouble with the concept.”

Cade was the one rolling their eyes, but Sifo-Dyas wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. “Many of you _are_. In the meantime, your people still tend to be the best bounty hunters around by a wide margin. And when there’s not enough trouble to play with, then you go find it. We can’t do that with an entire army!”

Myles shook his head. “Jango won’t back down from this. By making sure you Jedi are _responsible_ for someone and something, he can treat with you as disliked Clan heads and not the conquerors you _have_ been.” At Sifo-Dyas’ look, Myles raised a placating hand. “Historically speaking.”

“Then reduce the numbers,” Cade suggested, and again Myles rolled his eyes.

“I won’t debunk that again, because we’re all tired of repeating ourselves.” Myles shook his head. “Look, I appreciate you trying to sort through this tangle ahead of the politicians, but let’s leave this mess for a larger group of cooler heads. Please. It’s going to take more than just us.”

* * *

Cade sighed slow and deep, resisting the urge to rest his chin on his hand as the arguments recommenced. They’d been at it for _days_ now. Manda’lor Fett, Myles, three Republic senators, and a small diplomatic team of Jedi. Fett refused to back down from his demands for a standing army. The senators were adamant that they couldn’t maintain one at the size Fett declared necessary – the numbers codified into the Accords. The Jedi were mostly there as mediators, keeping tempers down to snarling but not murderous.

Cade privately suspected that their job was the hardest.

“Look,” Senator Kabuur of Ryloth sighed, folding her hands together. “We _cannot_ afford–”

“I heard.” Manda’lor Fett sounded bored, and just a hint disgusted. “Try singing another song.”

The Twi’lek glared at him, and Cade couldn’t tell if the implied insult referring to enslaved singers was intentional, or if Fett just didn’t care. Yes, the Twi’leks as a whole and Ryloth in particular were struggling to move away from a deeply entrenched slave economy, but...if it was an intentional insult, it was on the subtle side.

Senator Yiive from Alderaan spoke up, a strange tone to hir voice.

“Stasis.”

They all blinked over at the Weequay, who lifted hir chin into a defiant look for Fett. “What if we offer an alternative career path, make use of cryo-stasis and then keep a bunch of the army in a downtime capacity when they aren’t needed?” Senator Yiive charged on, relentless in the way of one who has had plenty of time to stew. “It’d be easy enough to add a new clause into the army’s contract, and phase out the soldiers who aren’t interested, or better yet they’re the ones who remain as the active part while– ”

“No.” Manda’lor Fett had gone from disdainfully casual to ramrod-straight.

Senator Yiive either ignored it, or had decided that zie had nothing to lose by this point. “–those willing to go into stasis – I suppose we’d have to invest in the process, make it safer, find ways to deal with hibernation sickness– ”

“ _Listen to me._ No.”

“Make sure the soldiers are properly compensated at a partial pay rate during– ”

“ _You cannot up and remove people from their lives!_ ”

The roar finally silenced the Senator. Sifo-Dyas and Cade stared. Fett was on his feet, hands clenched tight in fists on the table. He wasn’t a tall human, but his outrage burned in the Force like a solar flare.

When the Manda’lor finally spoke again, it was with an expression close to a snarl. “I’m not surprised you don’t understand. _Politicians_.” He sneered the title, and he almost seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his disdain. “Thinking as far down the road for your legacy as you can. And you.” His glare shifted to the small cluster of Jedi. “Every last one of you, hosts included, you’ll see centuries more.”

Cade could feel Sifo-Dyas sitting on a near-automatic retort, because now was _not_ the time.

“You can’t unmoor people from their surroundings! They’ve friends, families, _lives_.” Jango Fett’s ire seemed to have settled on them as a decent target to rail at. “ _Your_ culture might span enough time that it wouldn’t matter much, but to most of us, even a missing decade could impact so very much!” The Manda’lor shook his head, forcibly calming himself. “We are _done_ for today.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation, instead stalking out of the room.

After a moment, Cade sighed. # _That went well._ #

# _At least it was something new?_ # Sifo-Dyas didn’t sound like he really thought that, but there was a strange undercurrent of possibility to his thoughts.

Cade just hoped it meant progress.

* * *

Two weeks later, it was the same headache, the same blocking items, and the same. damn. arguments over and over and over again.

Cade had taken the lead for a social mixer that was supposed to help them wind down after the day’s verbal circles. A ship had arrived late in the morning, bringing planetary news and visitors from Ryloth. Senator Kabuur’s eldest son had been aboard, and of course that meant that the evening was for sipping cocktails and discussing the gossip the Senator’s son had brought with him, inconsequential though most of it was. If they were lucky, the conversation might include actual news.

Rather than holding court with herself as the ultimate arbiter of what a particular titbit of information meant in the grand scheme of Republic and Rylothian politics, Kabuur was doting on her offspring in a way that Sifo-Dyas would never not find disconcerting. The Attachment expressed by many beings over their direct biological offspring was mystifying to him, but he was no Queen.

Admittedly, he couldn’t imagine any Jedi Queen lavishing that much attention on their offspring, let alone just one. The logistics and time that would have to be spent upon the dozens, _hundreds_ of offspring in any particular creche group – well. Simply not doable.

Cade let out a mental hiss, too practiced to show the scandalized surprise he was feeling. Given that similar emotions were radiating from the other diplomats, Sifo-Dyas immediately brought his attention back to his host.

Kabuur’s son had shoved back his sleeve to reveal a scar circling his upper forearm near the elbow. The skin below the scar was a paler green than the rest of him, and the way he flexed his hand there was something a little off to his coordination.

“I’ve some therapy I still need to undergo,” he declared, pride and a bit of smugness in his voice. “But it’s Kaminoan – should be a full recovery and an interesting scar.”

# _Burn?_ # Sifo-Dyas asked, rather than memory digging.

# _Bio-engineered replacement,_ # Cade returned, trying to ogle the limb without looking like he was doing exactly that. # _Some kind of boating accident. He lost the arm. And being Kabuurs, they’ve been regaling us for the past ten minutes with exactly how fabulous their boat was, how tragic its loss is, and how damned expensive the recovery was. And now_ cloning _._ # Cade sent the mental impression of a head shake and a disbelieving whistle. # _I know they skim a ridiculous amount of credits, but that’s extravagant even for them._ #

# _Yes, well, far better the delicious scandal of a cloned limb instead of a common prosthetic,_ # Sifo-Dyas said, letting his disdain and sarcasm bleed into the words. Cade wasn’t the only one to be astonished. Ryloth’s senators had a history of graft and corruption, and this was an interesting, albeit morbid way of displaying their wealth. The Kaminoans were reclusive, and disliked any being that didn’t have enough credits to purchase their skills – or that disapproved of the ethical quandaries the Kaminoans presented. Multiple attempts had been made to ban the cloning of sentients throughout the Republic, which had led to several scandals about who or what qualified as sentient. Sifo-Dyas himself had inherited memories of the tawdry legal messes where his progenitors had been called in to testify regarding the Kaminoan cloners, since the Kamino system wasn’t too far from his own. Once, it had even been in support of the Kaminoans.

Several hundred years before that, it had been a Queen of his line who had been called in to discuss the merits of cloned beings. Since a Jedi could in theory spawn thousands to tens of thousands of offspring over their lifetime, their biological processes were close enough to cloning that a Jedi was the natural expert to consult over the status of cloned offspring.

The Kaminoans had been much less happy about _that_ legal decision.

For as far back as Sifo-Dyas could recall personally, cloning was restricted to bits and bobs, mostly internal organs. Limbs were far less common, far more expensive, and considered on the gray side of the market, so to speak.

A young aide to Senator Voda of Malastare squeaked with what felt like genuine shocked horror. “What if the cloners _kept your DNA_ and are doing – well – all _sorts_ of horrible things with it?”

Senator Kabuur gave the young Dug a look verging on condescension. “They’re Kaminoans – not only are they the best at what they do, you would not believe the contracts involved. I made sure of the clause that any excess material would be destroyed, in front of my son as a witness!”

# _I’m sure she paid for the best lawyers to check that too,_ # Cade grumbled sourly. # _Gods, that sort of thing turns my stomach._ #

Kabuur’s son smirked, his lekku curled in what looked like genuine amusement. “And besides, if they did anything nefarious, then the Republic has an army just waiting for something to do, right?”

When the laughter died down, he shrugged. “They _did_ offer the option of freezing the genetic material in case of future need, but it’s easy enough to have the genetic workup done again if needed.”

# _Annnd easy if you can_ afford _it,_ # Cade snarled, still maintaining the air of polite interest. # _I know favoritism and favors are part of the game, but_ really _can you believe this kind of hubris?_ #

Sifo-Dyas had stopped listening, his mind reeling with an unfolding epiphany.

Frozen genetic material. Mandalorians, unmoored in time – _frozen_ in time – away from their families. Pre-established friends, families, lives.

What if? What if there wasn’t that family, that _creche-group_? Mandalorian families were much less of blood and more of values, culture.

Dear gods. The culture of the army. The Jedi knew well the value of memory, allegiance to structures as compared to individuals and the power of education and memory and what if the _army_ were a culture, a _family_? The _entire_ damned army, structured from the ground up to be family to _all_ its members, no matter what time they might be from.

He dragged his thoughts back under control, appreciating that Cade had moved away to the refreshment table and was doing his best to sit on his raging curiosity.

# _I have to talk to Myles!_ # There was no way that he could achieve subtlety at the moment, not with his thoughts spinning with possibilities and the Force ringing with the sense of portent, potential. Cade’s bewilderment increased, but urgency had Sifo-Dyas in its grip. # _Myles! Now! Discretion, please!_ #

* * *

Jango stared at Myles. His vod was sitting upright in the way he did when he was unbelievably uncomfortable, but he still met Jango’s eyes. No shame, just discomfort. The Jedi meanwhile was watching closely, attentive and quiet.

“An army of clones,” Jango repeated, not quite believing the words coming out of his own mouth. They’d moved past the shouting and name-calling, none of which had made Myles back down. His vod was serious about this.

“Rotated in and out of cryo. Contracts of service. Raised as their own flavor of Mandalorian.”

Jango halted Myles with a raised hand. “Even if you could get the Republic to accept that, the Jedi would _have_ to be responsible for them.”

“I understand that, Manda’lor,” Sifo-Dyas declared, bowing his head. “It’s several steps beyond what the Accords already mandate, but it _is_ in the same spirit.”

Bastard, twisting his own demands against him. Jango leaned back in his chair, trying to swallow down his immediate revulsion at the notion of – gods, it would be _breeding programs_. “You’d have to prove the viability first. You can’t just jump into creating millions of lives just to – there’d have to be oversight, rigorous checks to make sure they’re not just – just _conscripted_ by being born!”

“ _Absolutely_ ,” the Jedi’s host growled. “The Sith liked their slave armies. We will _not_ be recreating that!”

The boy’s posture changed back to his Jedi’s. “As for the viability, I might have a solution for that. As the head of my system, I have access to a significant amount of personal funds. We are located near the Kamino system, and I am known to them. If you are willing to test this notion, then I am willing to put all of my funds towards this venture.”

He knew Sifo-Dyas’ worth. That was a lot of credits indeed. Jango crossed his arms, examining the matter in as cold-blooded a manner as possible. At last, he nodded once. “I’ll consider this. I make no promises and if I find you trying to force my decision, Jedi, we are through and you are dead.”

Sifo-Dyas took it as the dismissal it was. “Thank you, Manda’lor.” He stood and gave a graceful bow before leaving.

The silence was heavy between Jango and Myles. “You believe this?” he finally asked.

“Crazy as it may be, yes.”

‘Crazy.’ Oh, it was crazy all right. He sighed. “We’re talking about committing generations, millions or more of _Mando’ade_ to provide for the stability of the Jedi Order. And the Republic, but fuckin’ _Jedi_.”

“Jango.” Gods dammit, he already didn’t like that tone. He glared at Myles. “You know that whatever you decide, I will have your back. You already defanged the Jedi. They’ve executed violators of the Accords, it’ll become a part of the next generation’s basic mentality. This clone thing? It would mean that there’s a pool of hosts waiting, knowing their rights from the moment they can understand the words. Hells, if they do natal training, they’ll know it before they can _speak_. Strong willed Mando’ade keeping the Jedi in check. Mando’ade that grow up knowing they can build a solid background on the Jedi’s credits and then refuse to share a body with them. Go make a life doing whatever they damn well please instead. And if the clones are an attractive enough alternative, then random volunteers will be in the minority. The entire _culture_ of hosts becomes overwhelmingly Mandalorian.”

Jango could feel a vicious grin grow in spite of himself.

Myles returned it, and then put the last nail into the coffin. “And every time one of those bastards looks in the mirror or at a fellow Jedi, they’re going to see a clone, and get a reminder that Jango Fett decided the fate of their species.”


	3. Challenges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many MORE thanks to MoreCivilizedAge for once again making sure we crossed our Ts and dotted all the Is!

Maneuvering the small shuttle in the blustery weather was difficult, and Sifo-Dyas wished he could entrust it to a real pilot. That was not to be, however; secrecy demanded that as few people as possible be involved. Cade grumbled at the back of Sifo-Dyas’ mind, but even he conceded the point. Landing in the wind and rain kept them both occupied, and was finally accomplished with only a minor bump. Following their flight path a minute behind was Manda’lor Fett, who landed his sleek shuttle with a professional poise that Sifo-Dyas envied. Outside the cockpit, rain spat down in cold little drops, and darker clouds rolled closer.

Meetings on Kamino rarely began with all parties dry, whether those meetings were above-board or clandestine. Walking down the shuttle’s ramp, Cade pulled their hood up as the rain started coming down in earnest. Fett was also disembarking, and even from this distance, Sifo-Dyas could catch a whisper of his disquiet in the Force. The ramrod-straight posture reinforced the Force-impression, and Sifo-Dyas didn’t blame him. He and Cade had visited several times in the last decade, but this would be Fett’s first, and the clones took some getting used to.

Fett gave him a brusque nod, only relaxing a hair as Myles Tenau stepped out of the building’s entryway. “Glad you made it!” Myles yelled, projecting to be heard over the pouring rain. “This drizzle’s due to become a real storm in another hour or so!”

‘A real storm.’ # _Do you think that’s Tenau being Mandalorian, or a statement about the local weather?_ # Cade asked, hustling almost as much as Fett was.

# _‘Both’ would not be a surprise._ #

The shining white interiors were familiar after his many visits, but always felt ethereal. Myles, who’d spent the last dozen years here, never seemed to fit the pristine surroundings; too solid and alive. Then they turned a corner into a large, open room, and reality seemed to jolt sideways. Twenty young men stood in ranks before them, their very presence so real and mundane they seemed to spite the room by their simple existence. Where the room was forever sterile and ordered, the young men were too human even as they were impossibly _in_ human.

* * *

Jango stared at the batch of clones, trying not to feel like he’d taken a solid blow to the solar plexus. It was surreal, straddling the border of bewildering and horrible because this was _Myles_ , over and over again but _not_ , these imperfect copies of Myles as he had been years ago. Still the young man an equally young Jango Fett had made friends with, had learned to fight with, and alongside.

But that clone had the dark hair far too long, and the one there had shaved it entirely. The one watching him with hooded eyes and a shuttered expression over there had a wealth of tattoos, and not a one of them were _Myles_.

Then the world seemed to turn over, and he went from looking at a batch of clones-that-were-not-Myles to _young men_ , who were _copies_ of his best friend. Jango choked out some vague excuse, brushing against the Jedi as he made for the hallway to try to find enough air. It was one thing to plot out the dry facts with Myles and the Jedi – the number of clones, the training regime, the accelerated aging process until the clones reached the end of their teens – it was another thing altogether to see the living, breathing _people_ he’d had created on little more than the Jedi’s whim.

There was a reassuring touch to his back, words murmured in a slow precise beat for him to mimic and _breathe_. Jango straightened from bracing his hands on his knees, a posture he hadn’t even realized he’d taken. Myles raised a brow at him, and it was the _age_ in his friend’s face that prompted Jango to speak.

“I...wasn’t expecting that.”

Myles nodded. “It can be a bit overwhelming. But Jango?” Myles’ face hardened, and took on the implacable expression Jango knew to respect. “Those are my boys in there. They’ve been waiting for the chance to go through their paces for their Manda’lor.”

Jango’s face twisted. “Through their paces,” he echoed. “Like they’re some kind of _pets_.”

Myles _growled_. “Fuck you, Fett. What the hells would you call us as young bucks showing off for Jaster? Because so help me, _those are my boys_ , and as much as I love you, Jango, if you hurt them or treat them as _things_ then I will cheerfully tear you several new ones then stake you out for the air whales.”

He blinked, because that was nothing he ever would have expected from Myles, and he could tell that the man was quite serious. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, then shook his head as reality managed to realign in a way he understood. “Gods wept, Myles. When the fuck did you go and become a father?”

That rattled some of the fierceness out of Myles, sheepishness chasing across his face. He pulled back a little, flushing as he shrugged. “Honestly? I think it was somewhere back in year two or so.”

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised, but somehow he still was. Jango cleared his throat, reminding himself that this was Myles.

Myles’ _children_.

“...All right. Let’s see what they can do, then.”

Jango would never admit how much Myles’ brilliant smile sent a pang through him.

* * *

It took a few years, but Jango got his head around Myles’ kids. The Republic Senate took longer, if for no reason other than they needed the time to stop screaming in outrage. Jango was just as glad he didn’t need to be around for most of those hearings. Sifo-Dyas took the brunt of that, since he’d footed the bill, and Myles was happy to cover for Jango.

That had the added benefit of making the Senate face the man who was willing to step up for his principles, no matter how insane they were. Even better, once the kids got old enough several took an interest in going to the hearings themselves. Jango couldn’t help but admire the audacity, not to mention the strategy in making sure the _politicians_ had to see that these were real people, genuine _individuals_.

They’d learned well from Myles. He hadn’t spared any expense in making sure those boys got the education and training they wanted for whatever lives they chose to lead.

That had been increasingly eating at Jango, not that he let on to it. It was an absurd issue that he didn’t need Myles getting worked up about due to some misplaced idiot notion about his part in causing... _consternation_ to his Manda’lor.

After all, Jango had plenty of things he could point to as a legacy. Manda’lor in his twenties. Ending the tensions between Mandalore and the Republic. Ending the Sith Empire – or at least the war with them. If he was lucky, it’d be the end of the Sith in truth. Reformation of the fucking Republic _and_ the Jedi Order – all while making Mandalore prosperous, and keeping its people safe.

Hell, he was aware that his people were happy enough with his work that he was liable to die Manda’lor, and not because he’d been challenged for the position.

Old age didn’t frighten him. Jango was too familiar with death for it to bother him by now.

But...sometimes, there was something _interesting_ in the way Myles interacted with his kids. Jango had shrugged it off so far. The process of having kids was of less than no interest to him, and if he wanted to adopt or foster then as soon as word got out he’d be beating offers away with a stick.

He didn’t know what to do with the nebulous emotions, so he brushed them off as annoying and irrelevant as he dealt with more pressing problems.

Once the Senate got its collective head out of its ass, that meant dealing with the selection of the clone template. They’d dumped it on his head as a punishment, and because it meant they could wash their hands of the mess if it blew up in Jango’s face.

As if he’d _let_ anyone else do it. Force knew how they’d screw it up.

* * *

Myles tried to keep from getting too caught up in the combat down in the arena, but it was damned hard. That was the best of the fucking best hammering away at each other, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seem something that blasted impressive.

The selection trials had made for several long months. The initial screening process – psych evals, medical screening, everything coded underneath with hidden ethics assessments – it’d been a nightmare. It’d been astonishing to him just how many bounty hunters and assorted beings – many of them Mandalorians – were eager for the possibility to be the Jedi army (and host) template. Sure, there was a monetary award, but it was no bigger than a generous bounty, even if there was far less chance of death. The prestige, though, that seemed to bring contestants out of the woodwork.

Jango had tackled all of it with a grim zeal that just evaporated when they reached the physical contests. Not the planning part – he’d taken excessive glee in plotting how they’d be able to run any number of species-dependent obstacle courses, tests for any number of skills, and of course the limits on the group and single combat battles.

The instant the first contestant had set foot on planet, Jango made a hard switch from visibly nostalgic about his glory days to fucking well hiding from proceedings. He’d greeted all the incoming potentials, then bargained with Myles so that Jango could fuck off and deal with the countless protests and potential saboteurs to the event, while Myles was stuck playing host.

It did make a kind of sense, both in how it depoliticized the affair and left Myles and his sons as the visible center of officials, rather than Jango Fett, the Manda’lor.

It was a right pain in the shebs. If he wanted this kind of responsibility, he’d have deposed Jango years ago.

Jango, of course, had laughed in his face when he told the asshole that. Then they’d gotten too busy with their respective responsibilities, and he’d barely seen Jango since then.

In the arena, the current favorite made a magnificent dodge away from a small rocket, rolling to their feet and using a jetpack to careen into the cover of a manufactured ‘ruin,’ a randomly erected set of walls, pillars, and rubble.

The other contestant – some flavor of Trandoshan, with that snout and tail – took a moment to resettle themselves. Or sigh in exasperation – it was difficult to tell from this distance. They’d given a good accounting of themselves, earning the nickname ‘Alor’ – Boss – from the crowd during the group combats. Alor always took charge, and had a clear grasp of group tactics that was phenomenal to see. They thought like a pack hunter, but there was also a good streak of sneakiness to back that up.

Myles had liked from the first how they directed their people to work as a team. He didn’t approve of the way they were a bit of a dictator, physically disabling two different contestants on their own team that had disagreed with them taking charge.

It had cost Alor’s team some serious points, but the swift dispatch of the other team had mostly made up for it.

The contestant with the jetpack was of interest to everyone, Myles included. Like all the contenders, they’d shown up on the field in white armor – a beskar base, provided by Mandalore as part gift, part reward for entering and getting this far, and part to standardize equipment. Contestants had been allowed to modify their gear under the watchful eye of various Mandalorians, most of whom had fought alongside Jango himself and already knew dozens of ways to bend the modding rules without making equipment too lethal for the trials, which were supposed to be as close to non-lethal they feasibly could be.

There were bounty hunters that wanted to participate without the chance to expose their face to the galaxy, just as there were... _concessions_ and protections in place for those who might win but come from an unsavory past. The Kaminoans, meanwhile, were on hand to do spot checks of genetic material and make sure there were no substitutions and none of the prohibited medical enhancement. They were the only ones who knew for certain which contender was which.

So Myles had met the being with the jetpack at some point in his official capacity, but he had no idea which if the short humanoids – several of whom hadn’t left their _own_ armor at the time – it might be.

Skota’ab, the crowd had named them. All the contestants had nicknames, because betting on numbers representing beings was boring and it was far more fun for people to name things. ‘Short foot’ in Mando’a, both taking a jab at the being’s height and the way they’d distinguished themselves in the first mock combat.

Skota’ab had done very well at the exhibition part of the competition, with showy blasterwork and efficient dismantling of target droids. Myles had pegged them as an early washout, because unlike the average person he’d been able to take the time to poke through the evaluations beforehand. Skota’ab had just barely squeaked through the psych evals, and only the exemplary ethics scores had salvaged them from the rejection pile.

The first round had been a bit of a clusterfuck in a number of ways. Between one contestant that was trying to substitute in their own sibling, several who were trying to smuggle in unapproved weaponry ranging from ridiculous to lethal, and no one having serious experience about what the fuck they were doing–

It was amazing more contestants hadn’t died, truth be told. Skota’ab had almost been one of the three fatalities. Their first opponent had been a Wookiee – no amount of armor could hide all that fur or all that height. Skota’ab had held their own, but to Myles it had looked capable but lackluster. The being had the physical requirements, but not the skills. Then the Wookiee had caught Skota’ab with a grappling wire around the leg. Since there was a fucking _Wookiee_ on the other end of it, things had been ugly for a bit.

It seemed that Skota’ab did best with life or limb incentives. The fight had gotten messy, and gone on far longer than anyone thought it would. The Wookiee was due to make a full recovery, which was the only reason Skota’ab was still in the running.

And to think Myles had laughed at Jango’s provision that killing an opponent would disqualify someone.

Down in the arena, Sokta’ab was leading Alor on a ridiculous little chase through the rock, both of them keeping things interesting with pot shots and small explosives. Myles figured that this chase would go on for a few more minutes, then there’d probably be some kind of attack from above or the long way round, given how Skota’ab liked their jetpack.

It seemed that Alor thought the same, the way they were hanging back and leaving easy access to the higher pillars. That meant they were looking up, instead of beside them as Skota’ab shoulder-checked them into a wall. There was a brief and furious scuffle, the large lizard-being caught by surprise by the smaller humanoid.

It ended with Alor in a chokehold, Skota’ab’s blaster to its temple. Alor signaled defeat, and Skota’ab jumped up from their opponent with a victorious shout and a small fistpump. The stands erupted into a new level of screaming and applause, and the bounty hunter’s head jerked up and they stared around. The body language was of a person only now reminded of their surroundings as the helmet jerked down at hair, as if they were doing a double-take at their opponent.

Myles cued his audio hookup, congratulating Skota’ab on their victory, remembering at the last second to use their official entry number and not the nickname. Alor hoisted themselves up to their knees, and Skota’ab jerked again – this time, it was to turn and offer their opponent a hand. Two Mando’ade medics jet-packed down as the being took the hand up, and several other guards swooped in to escort their winner to a private meeting room.

It still took too damn long to get through the pageantry, but at long last Myles could hustle down to the room to face Skota’ab. He passed through the levels of security with as much patience as he could muster, then put on his most neutral face as he entered.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. Someone relaxing, perhaps with helmet off. Someone pacing, maybe, understandably upset at the delay.

Somehow, he hadn’t expected the being to be watching out the triple-reinforced windows, legs braced for a long wait and at rest with a hand holding their opposite wrist.

“Congratulations,” Myles started, only to stop as the being held up a hand, shoulders hunching.

“I swear I have an explanation for this,” a neutral voice said, buzzed by a vocorder to almost incomprehensible Basic. Then Skota’ab popped off their helmet, tucking it under their arm.

Jango fucking Fett just _looked_ at him, a hair sheepish and too fucking damned resolute.

“What.”

“I...didn’t plan for things to get this far?” Jango shrugged and glared back out the window for a moment. “I honestly didn’t think I’d _get_ this far. For Force’s sake, Myles, I was good, but seventy’s not nearly as far off as I’d–”

“I know exactly how old you are, Jango Fett!” Myles roared. “What the _fuck_?”

The asshole had the temerity to look insulted. “That’s not ancient.”

“That’s no damn spring chicken either! _How_ did you fake your way into– ”

“I didn’t fake anything!” Jango yelled back, real anger crossing his face. “You really think I’d let this shit proceed without excessive oversight? I went through the same process as every other idiot out there, because I’ll be _damned_ if I let a single one of my people dance to the Jedi’s tune without being willing to do the same myself!”

Jango pulled back, calming himself with a slow, deep breath. The anger eased away, overcome by sheepishness again. “I didn’t lie once. I didn’t equivocate once. It’s the cold, hard, insane truth every last centimeter of the way, and I suspected I’d wash out before making it to the physical rounds. I’d hoped I’d make a decent showing of myself.” He shook his head. “I’m vain enough that I hoped I’d last at least a few rounds once I got here,” he said, rueful but honest. “ _This_? I didn’t expect this.”

Myles had to cross his arms because otherwise he would give in to the urge to throttle his idiot best friend. “Then. What. Happened?”

“I got too caught up in it. Survival instinct, that first round. Then it was....”

“If you say ‘fun’ I will shoot you myself, here and now.”

Jango gave him that damned crooked smirk that was entirely unfair. “I was thinking ‘rejuvenating,’ really.”

He was honest to all the gods just a hair away from screaming. “This wasn’t some opportunity for you to have some kind of life-crisis and prove you’re still virile or what the fuck ever! There was a _reason_ for this mess and we still need to resolve that!”

Jango gave him a long, blank look of utter confusion. Then he blinked. “Wait. You think I’m going to back out _now_? After all that?”

Myles stared back, not quite able to kick his brain into the logical conclusion. “You’re willing to be the progenitor?”

Again with that fucking stupid stubborn look. “You know the majority of applicants were Mandalorian. I wouldn’t ask someone to do shit I am capable of but not willing to do myself.”

The anger slowly deflated out of him, and Myles shook his head. He needed to sit down. This was– He couldn’t– Jango was such an _asshole_. “Gods dammit, Jango,” he managed, voice faint and weary. “When I was talking about the Jedi being reminded of you every time they look in the mirror, I didn’t mean it _literally_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the first batch of clones do get double-timed aging until their later teens -- while there never managed to be a convenient spot to discuss it in the story proper, we realized that even with canon lifespans being longer than modern Earth average, the conspirators needed proof of concept to shove in the Senate's faces sooner rather than later.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks to a fascinating comment by Kaylin881, we decided to do Star Fever week - an open invitation for others to play in the Star To Steer By universe, with contributions to be posted in April. We've got details up on tumblr [here](http://dogmatix.tumblr.com/post/171077314348/star-fever), in case people wanted to join in the fun. ^_^


	4. Epilogue: The Best Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter has significant trigger warnings, which are located in the end notes for your convenience. 
> 
> We're also running with the notion that Star Wars lifespans are longer than modern Earth lifespans.

Boba Fett gagged a little as air rushed back into his lungs. He broke into a coughing fit, grateful for the gentle hands lifting him up and moving him to what felt like a medical bed.

“Easy,” a familiar voice reassured him. Not Dad; the cadence was all wrong, and Boba was used to telling the difference.

He blinked – a lot – trying to focus on the face above him. The clone standing over him grinned. “It’s all right, brother. Your stint on ice is over. It’s been one hundred-fifty years Core standard, which hasn’t changed since the last time you were out.”

He laughed weakly. “They’ve got brothers manning this instead of medical droids?”

The brother winked at him. “Eh, the tinnies are still here, but everybody likes to see a familiar face when they wake up, yeah?”

Boba snickered, and another brother out of his line of sight heaved a long suffering sigh. “Don’t encourage him. He says that to everyone we thaw, and it’s still not funny.”

The first brother grinned. “You’re just cranky you didn’t think of it first.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t sprain something patting yourself on the back.”

Boba giggled a little as the brothers helped him sit up, working him through basic exercises to get him back to functioning sooner. They kept talking to him, coaxing him to respond through the mental fog. Cryo put a halt to everything, and restarting it took some work and a bit of time.

“Ok, now we need to make sure everything matches. Name and number?” Stitch, the talkative brother, asked.

“Boba. CT-0050.”

The other medic – Blunt – whistled. “Early gen. Damn. I wasn’t expecting you to crop up in the middle of the numbers we’ve been seeing lately.”

He grinned, but it was mostly fake to cover the sadness. “Delisted from the army for a bit. Re-upped later on.”

Stitch blinked at him. “Never met anyone who did that.”

“Everyone has their reasons.”

* * *

It was just another small arms class, Boba and twenty-four others his age, all lined up in a row taking shots at targets down the range. He was aware of the instructors pacing behind them, making notes and probably talking with the inspectors that were due at the facility today. He could tell someone had stopped behind him, could see a bulky frame in armor just out of the corner of his eye, but that sort of thing hadn’t ever bothered him.

The green lights at the end of the range flickered to red, and Boba and his classmates stopped shooting. They stepped back as a unit, though Boba had to sidestep to avoid his observer. He’d holstered the gun before really taking a look at the being, and when he did he just froze.

It was _him_. It was _Jango Fett_. The progenitor himself, and he’d been watching Boba.

Oh gods. He was suddenly too damn aware of how he’d been off center more than on. “Sir!” He snapped to attention, halting a moment later as Manda’lor Fett lazily waved a hand at him.

“No need. By which I mean please don’t.” Boba and every cadet in range tried to relax, and a few even managed to fake it. Then Jango Fett stepped up, gesturing down the range. “Show me what you were doing.”

Oh no. He was going to be an object lesson. Boba swallowed, then pulled his blaster. He double checked that the safety was on, then aimed.

“Hmm. You’re targeting a bit too high for the kick on this model, and you’re a little too stiff.” Large hands settled gently on his shoulders, tugging him out of the precise stance the instructors insisted on. “Try that, next time.”

Boba muttered dazed assent as Manda’lor Fett turned to walk off with the inspectors. The trainers gave them all a moment to register what happened, then started up the lesson again.

He– he hadn’t been an object lesson. For whatever reason, _Jango Fett_ had taken the time to give him, an ordinary clone trooper, a bit of advice.

It worked a lot better for him, too.

* * *

“Boba? CT-0050? Boba!”

“What?” He snapped out of the memory, blinking muzzily at Stitch. The brother smiled at him, sympathetic.

“Don’t worry about it. Memory is funny, coming out of freeze. Flashbacks are common.”

“Ah.” Force, he hadn’t had a flashback like that in ages. This was a lot kinder, though, not involving actual trauma – just the formative moment of his childhood where the standard hero worship for Jango Fett had turned into a genuine desire to follow in the progenitor’s footsteps.

It was easy enough to split his attention, answering more questions on automatic, then Blunt managed to disorient him some more. “So, is there anyone you’d like us to see if we can contact? We’re used to unfreezing squads, not individuals. Any brothers in particular, or other friends?”

* * *

Dad stood at the edge of the platform, leaning on Art’s shoulder. He looked frail in a way Boba didn’t like, fragile in a way he hadn’t seen since Uncle Myles’ funeral almost six years ago.

“I can still back out,” Boba whispered, and Jango rolled his eyes before stepping away from Art to pull Boba in one of the gruff, almost-too-tight hugs that went on forever.

“And you’ll be kicking yourself for not following through, and then we’ll kick the problem back and forth until I’m too old to remember why it’s a problem, and then you’re going to see what flavor of senile I’ll end up as. And neither of us wants that.”

Boba tried to smile around the huge lump in his throat. They both knew that this would be their last opportunity. It wasn’t like this was a whim.

It still hurt, for all that deep down inside, he was at least a little relieved that he didn’t have to watch the sunset days of Manda’lor Jango Fett.

That would hurt even more. He didn’t want to remember his father as someone frail and dying. That wasn’t the man who was his progenitor – the man who was his father.

“I don’t want to up and abandon you.” They’d had this ridiculous discussion countless times already, and he didn’t _mean_ to blurt it out again. It just...happened. Only this time, Jango smiled at him, something soft and gentle.

“I know. You’re not. I have Art and Colis to keep a close eye on me, and they’ll call their brothers if they have to.” Boba looked over at the eldest of Myles’ clones, who nodded back to him.

He understood losing his father. He’d take care of Jango.

The Manda’lor reached out, resting a hand on Boba’s pauldron. “I’m already proud of the man you are, and I am certain that I will be proud of the man you’ll be. It’ll be all right, son. I appreciate you volunteering to make sure no one’s fucked things up. And – Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la, right, Boba?”

“Not gone, merely marching far away,” he repeated, barely able to whisper it. He really didn’t want to cry and make a fucking scene.

Jango had to ruin that, of course, because he was smiling through tears as he hugged Boba again. He held on tight, trying to memorize the moment.

He got to watch that proud, loving smile until the moment the cold hit him.

* * *

“No.” He blinked, swallowing once and fighting back tears. It’d been less than an hour for him. One hundred-fifty years for everyone else. If Myles’ children were still around, they’d find him. They would know that Jango’s son had gone marching ahead – or behind, depending on perspective – to make sure that time and memory hadn’t failed Jango’s legacy. “No thanks. I’d just like my orders and then some downtime to catch up on history.”

“Anything in particular?” Stitch asked, what had to be a rote question full of idle curiosity as he handed over a thin folder of flimsi.

“Jango.”

Both the medics looked awed. “Did you know him?” Blunt whispered, hero-worship shining in his eyes. “What was he like?”

* * *

It was kind of terrifying, to not even be twenty and standing in The Fett’s reception room. It didn’t help that when the Manda’lor entered, Myles Tenau was following along in his wake. Both were fully armored, looking curious and predatory. It took everything Boba had to not stand at attention. That was the wrong approach. He wasn’t here as a soldier.

Jango Fett and Tenau sat, and the silence stretched out. It was far past the point where the silence should have snapped that Fett finally spoke. “Who are you and what did you want to see the Manda’lor about?”

It was a nice mix of approachable and aggressive all at the same time. He had to admire that. “Boba. CT-0050. I decided I didn’t want to be a soldier, and I hoped you’d teach me to be a bounty hunter.”

All he got for that was a slow blink and a slight rise of the brows. “Really.”

Boba thought he could at least see humor on Tenau’s face, which was the only reassurance that his gamble was working. “Yes.” He had to bite back the automatic ‘sir’ that wanted to follow, but he had to make it clear he was not a soldier, not now.

Jango leaned back, crossing his arms and looking unimpressed. “I’m a little old for that kind of malarky.”

“Bad bounty hunters don’t get old.” That earned him a wry look from Jango while Tenau shifted to try to cover a grin. “Even if you decided I wasn’t worth taking into the field to train, I’d still learn several times more from you than anyone else.”

Again with the quirk of the brows. “Is that supposed to appeal to my vanity, or poke at my need to prove I can still do stupid shit?”

Tenau snickered. “Nothing says it can’t be both.” That earned him a glare from the Manda’lor, and he shot back a wry look. “For fucks’ sake, Jango, if you don’t train him I will, and you’ll never hear the end of it. At least see where this goes. It’s bound to be an interesting ride one way or another.”

Jango Fett’s glare intensified. “Every time you say something like that, things end with explosions.”

“Better than being too quiet, right?” Boba dared to say, and he had to fight down a smile at Jango Fett’s bark of laughter.

“You’re going to be trouble, Boba.”

* * *

“Just like the stories of him,” Boba finally settled on. “That’s what he’s like.”

“Wow. You knew Jango Fett. This...sounds like a bit of a come down from that.”

“Nah.” He shrugged, trying to make it look casual. “This was the right thing to do. I’m looking forward to seeing how things go.”

“Huh.” It was clear that Stitch was working to shake off the awe, and Boba could hear the rote tone to the question. “So any plans for once your tour’s over?”

He hesitated, because that was something he hadn’t even felt comfortable talking to Dad about. Then he decided there was no harm to it. He might not be open about all his plans, but – “Dunno. I haven’t settled on anything, but might be neat to see if I could cut it as Manda’lor.”

* * *

There was a fire going in the center of the living room, a nice contrast to the mountain air that came in through windows that didn’t have enviro-seals engaged. It was all ridiculously rustic and over the top in the way that some of the older clan leaders adored, but Boba enjoyed the experience. From one of the taller mountains of Concordia, they had a glorious vista of trees and the occasional wildlife. The stars and Mandalore itself set up a lovely glow, and it was a fantastic end to one of the best days he could recall.

Jango was stretched out in an overstuffed chair that was suspiciously close to the fire, as if his arthritis was kicking up but he didn’t want to admit it – not that he ever did. Boba had the sofa next to it, and he was chewing over the day. They’d finally gone and had an actual, official adoption, traditional Mandalorian ceremony and all – not that such a thing was ever very ostentatious.

Still. He was now officially Boba Fett. That was...strange. Good, but strange.

It also meant he was considering older mysteries, until it just kind of snuck out of him. “Why’d you do it, Dad?”

Jango lazily raised a brow. “What, adopt you?”

Boba rolled his eyes as Jango started to smirk. He loved the man, he really did, but he could be such an asshole. “No,” he huffed, tossing a throw pillow from the end of the sofa at Jango. The laughing idiot caught it and tossed it right back to the corner where it’d come from. “Just – all of it. The Accords, us clones, everything. I’ve heard the propaganda, we learned the official story in class, but I don’t think for one minute that there’s not more to it than that.”

Jango’s face went neutral in a way a lot of people thought was cold. He seemed to be considering the question, then he shot Boba a look. “That’s been bothering you for awhile, has it?” His voice was mild, all of it an obvious stall for time. 

He’d been a good teacher. Boba just waited, patient and now even more curious because if the topic was taboo, Jango would have no hesitation in telling him it was none of his business.

He couldn’t even imagine what was going on.

It took a bit longer than he’d expected, but Jango pursed his lips and glared down at the fireplace. “Spite, mostly.”

That was not an answer he expected, no matter how very Jango it was. “Spiting who?”

Jango’s wry expression twisted towards bitter. “Jedi.” Boba’s expression must have been telling, because Jango let out an amused snort. “Why do you think the primary long-term purpose of the initial Accords was to regulate how Jedi take hosts?”

Boba knew a teaching moment when it was waved in front of his face. That was a very specific statement, and it had to be relevant to the point. “I would have said it had to do with outlawing the Sith and their practices,” he answered, slow as he picked his way through the implications. “But that’s the blindingly obvious answer.

Jango grunted. “Neat, simple, and wrong.”

“I did say ‘would have,’ Dad,” he said, mild enough to earn a grin that didn’t quite reach the eyes. He didn’t like how the details added up, but there just wasn’t enough intel for him to make a reasonable conclusion.

He tried anyways, because that was who Boba Fett was. “Something happened,” he guessed. “Jedi couldn’t or didn’t stop something bad. Sith took over...a Mandalorian outpost?”

Oh, he did _not_ like the look Jango got. Whatever it was, it had been bad. “Funny how quickly people forget. Or maybe they don’t like telling you boys the interesting stories. Shuttle crash. Teenage Mando survivor, single Jedi, and their fatally injured host. The kid woke up to find the Jedi needed a host, and since it was an emergency, they’d be residing there until they could fuck off to safety.”

Boba’s jaw dropped, and he stared. That was insane. He almost couldn’t imagine it. “Gods,” he finally managed to murmur. “I didn’t think they did that?”

Jango’s smile was vicious. “Not now they don’t. They used to excuse extreme circumstances, but that’s two small steps away from Sith. You can’t _take_ someone’s life from them like that.”

He couldn’t say what fragments of intel fit together to reveal an even uglier picture, but Boba went still as the implications solidified into a horrible certainty. There were only two individuals that could have happened to that would lead to Jango setting out to reorder the galaxy, and if it had been Myles then there wouldn’t be a single Jedi still alive. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed. “Why the hell didn’t every last Jedi Temple go up in flames?” It was...strange. He’d left the army, didn’t want to host and now he was _certain_ he wouldn’t ever host, but he knew enough Jedi – _liked_ enough Jedi – that the notion of genocide was even more noxious than it could be. He didn’t know what to do with this. 

Jango sighed and leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked... _tired_ , instead of the bitter that Boba would expect. “In the end, how much is my pain worth?” Boba was trying to puzzle out the soft question even as Jango shrugged. “How many lives? Not Jedi lives. Mando’ade. Bounty hunters. Anyone I could rally to squash every last parasite that dared to call themselves Jedi. How many of them could die before it wasn’t worth a week where I was some meat puppet?”

He had to fight to swallow down his nausea. “Dad....” Fuck, this had definitely been the wrong conversation to have. They were supposed to be celebrating, and he’d gone and put his foot right in it.

Jango surprised him with a chuckle – weak, but real. “It’s fine. It’s probably a talk we should have had long ago.” The humor faded fast. “By the time I was in any position to do something about the bastards, I’d figured out that revenge would cost too much. I had too many people I was responsible for to waste their lives trying to drown my trauma with blood.”

The silence lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, until Boba cleared his throat. “I probably should’ve guessed you staying neutral in the wars for so long wasn’t some kind of attrition strategy.”

“Profit,” Jango said, shaking his head. “Just profit. Didn’t mind the attrition rate, though. Not of them.”

Boba could easily translate that into ‘never for them.’

“But then the attrition rate started to hit us. Didn’t take any kind of a genius to see how it was going to go. And the only way to stop it was to pick a side, for real, and back it to the hilt. Sith wouldn’t allow themselves to be controlled, so that meant limiting the Jedi.”

A part of Boba kept asking questions, the same way he would for any lesson from his father. The rest of him was assessing the history from every angle he could find. Jango had made a brutal call. Boba figured it was the right one – regardless of how it impacted him – but that didn’t make any step of it easier.

Jango was Boba’s father, in all ways. Mando’ade preferred meritocracy over lineage and inheritance, but Boba knew he’d do near anything to protect what his father had built. The best way to do that would be from the top – as Manda'lor. Like everything else in his life, he’d have to work for it.

Good thing neither clones nor Fetts were the kind to shy away from hard work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: discussion and contemplation of death of a parent, along with passing mention of death of family members.


End file.
